


Need

by melanoradrood



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Werewolf Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-23 09:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30053691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanoradrood/pseuds/melanoradrood
Summary: It's the screams that catch him. The screams he can't escape. The screams that follow him, rip at him, tear apart his very soul and soak into his bones. It's the screams that keep him awake at night.It's the screams that make him think he is going mad.He's determined to avoid getting killed, to make the most of his second chance. But he has to find the screams, to prove to himself he's sane. And in doing so, maybe he'll figure out why Hermione Granger looks like she's as mad as he is.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 46
Kudos: 66





	1. Prologue

Stepping off of the train, Draco looks around, expecting someone to meet him, to escort him up to Hogwarts. Instead, the platform is eerily empty, save for a single lamppost that is lit. There is no boat waiting to take him across the lake to the school. There is no carriage waiting to take him up the road through Hogsmeade.

Instead, it is oddly silent, the only sound coming from the cold night wind gusting through the trees.

He waits, for what he does not know, perhaps a burst of inspiration, or for someone, anyone. He can’t Apparate closer to the school, since he doesn’t have an Apparition license, and he can’t fly, having not been given one in the trunk that the ministry kindly packed for him. The only option left to him is to walk.

And so, ten minutes after the train had arrived at the station, he begins to do just that.

His trunk, he levitates, with everything still packed safely inside. Everything he owns, for as long as the Ministry is searching Malfoy Manor and his numerous vaults, is in this trunk. 

He tries not to think about that as he begins the dark walk, but it’s impossible not to. That’s all he has done, for over four months. Think. Think while sitting in absolute solitude.

And then, the Wizengamot had pulled him from his cell and acquitted him. That had been two days earlier, and now, as Draco walks, he can finally think it through.

Acquitted. It doesn’t mean he’s innocent. Innocent implied they recognized that he had done nothing wrong… and Draco has to agree with them. He had made a thousand mistakes along the way, and yet - was there ever another choice? Was there ever another path for him?

But guilty… was Draco guilty of being a Death Eater? He had feared them, hidden from them, been marked as one of them, yes, but he had also been tortured by them. Death Eaters killed and attacked and tortured and destroyed, and what had Draco done?

_ You’re the reason Dumbledore is dead _ , he reminds himself.

And that is enough for him. Because of his direct actions, a wizard had died. He may have not been the one to cast the spell, but he was the one that brought them all there.

Acquitted. Neither innocent nor guilty. There was simply no way to prove either way.

_ I could have shown them the truth _ , he thinks, remembering the threats, the promises really, of what would happen to his mother if he had failed.

But they didn’t ask for evidence. There wasn’t even a trial. Draco was simply dragged from his cell and placed before the court to hear his sentencing. Acquittal. Probation. A tracker.

After going through what felt like a whirlwind of emotion, from anger and rage to sadness to begging to depression to acceptance of his lack of a future… to hear that he would be allowed his freedom…

Except, it comes at a cost. A cost he is now paying, as he walks alone in the darkness, towards Hogwarts. A cost that, now as he stands, looking towards the castle, illuminated in the distance by the glow of the full moon, feels far too high.

A year at Hogwarts, to complete his final studies. Two years of a Mastery. Two years at the Ministry. And then, he would be a free Wizard.

But at what cost?

Because, within Hogwarts, he knows he’s not safe. Hogwarts is where students had been tortured and attacked by Death Eaters. Where classmates had been killed. Where Crabbe… Where the war and all of the loss and death finally ended.

And just outside of Hogwarts? The village of Hogsmeade, where he’s currently walking. He stops at that thought, a chill running down his spine. While the Headmistress promised that he would be safe at Hogwarts, his past actions forgotten by request of the Ministry… there was no promise made by the village.

What will they do to him, when they see him? It’s late, yes, but not so late that the pub would be empty. It would be impossible for him to slip through the village entirely unseen… particularly after his face had been on the front cover of the paper, detailing the terms of his release.

_ They’re going to bloody hex me _ , he realizes, suddenly frozen in fear.

For a brief moment, he considers turning around and taking the path through the Forbidden Forest. Somehow, that feels less dangerous. At least whatever is in the forest, he can possibly outrun, or at least stun.

But a person? The tracker placed on him would surely alert the ministry, and then…

There’s no obvious answer.

He hesitates, turning to look back in the direction where he had come from. Far off, he can just barely make out the glow of the lantern on the platform. And then, further on, is simply darkness.

Hogsmeade Village. At least it’s fully lit, and if he moves quickly enough, he will be in sight of the school within twenty minutes. He just has to hurry.

Still, his hand tightens on his wand, enjoying the familiar feeling of magic flowing through it. It’s one of the only things he has that was his before the war, returned to him after his Acquittal. It feels good, to have an extension of himself in hand, and he whispers a  _ Protego _ , hoping that it will be enough to stop any of the villagers that attack him.

He makes it to the edge of the village before panic starts to set in. After months of being in a cell, it feels so strange to have such a wide-open path before him, but now, it’s almost too much. He reminds himself, standing there, that this is a future that, up until two days ago, he had not believed he would ever have.

When he had stepped into the courtroom, he had already accepted that his future was destroyed. He had accepted that his fate was already sealed. That he, a boy that had been marked just after his sixteenth birthday, would spend the rest of his life imprisoned. That he would never again know warmth, would always feel hunger, and would go mad from the solitude.

This… the path before him… He has no choice in it. He must return to Hogwarts. He must walk through this village. He must accept things as they come. It’s a future he didn’t know he had. He just has to keep moving.

Swallowing down his fears, Draco begins to walk along the outskirts of the village. The houses are all dark for the night, but the lanterns glow along the street up ahead. It’s more than he had had on the path approaching the village, but he had feared lighting a  _ Lumos _ , as though it would give away his position.

There’s no hiding once he enters the village.

Swallowing down his fears, he reminds himself of what he had finally decided, while sitting in chains, receiving his final sentence. 

Accepting, but wary. Grateful, but apathetic. Exhausted, but at peace.

So long as he is wary, he can accept the path before him. So long as he doesn’t show too much emotion, he can feel gratitude. And the exhaustion, when it overwhelms him… he simply has to remind himself that the current path he is on, it might lead to peace.

He reaches the edge of the village, and he knows that he must continue up the path towards Hogwarts, but he considers walking around. It would take longer, but it would likely be safer.

No. No. He must continue on. Accepting, so long as he is wary.

He continues walking up the path towards Hogsmeade, his wand held tight in his hand, just in case any of the villagers see him and decide to attack.

And then, he hears the first scream.

Without thought, he’s already taking two steps backward, his wand held aloft, a silent cast of  _ Protego _ surrounding him. His eyes dart around, seeking out the dark shadows. There’s no flash of lights, no flash of spells, and there are no sounds of casting of spells being thrown, of bodies being tossed about - not even the sounds of doors flying open, people flooding the streets in panic and terror.

A second scream comes, and he turns towards it, seeking it out. Once he actually knows exactly where the scream is coming from, he’ll run in the opposite direction.

Wherever the screams are, that’s exactly where he doesn’t want to be.

His eyes dart towards the woods, lingering along the edge of the village, and then there’s a third scream. It’s soul-piercing, ringing in his ears, never-ending. It’s familiar, in a way that chills every bone in his body. The sound cuts through him, echoing, a haunting harmony that nearly causes him to double over in terror.

It’s the sound of someone being tortured. The sound of someone being ripped apart. It’s the sound of someone begging for their life, or for mercy, or for it to just end. It’s a sound he’s heard over and over again, a sound that he’ll never escape, a sound that will follow him even in death.

It ends just as suddenly as it began. Once more, it’s silent. Absolutely silent.

Draco does not move, his eyes still darting around, looking for the swirl of a cloak, the movement of wizards between houses, even just a single sign of life… but there’s nothing.

He can still feel the prickles on his skin, his ears still ring, and his heart is still pounding. What he heard… they were screams of agony. Surely someone else had to have heard it. He is only a few paces away from the village itself. Someone else  _ had _ to have heard it. There was simply no other way.

But as he looks around, it clicks, that he truly is the only one that heard anything. That ringing in his ear, the prickles on his skin, his pounding heart in chest… he’s the only one. And, with a sense of horror, he realizes that this is it. The madness that plagued his Aunt Bella, the torture of sitting in solitary for months, the quietness that attacks you when you least expect it…

He had felt comfort while in solitary. Solitary doesn’t attack you. It’s quiet, yes, but it can’t kill you. It doesn’t hex. It doesn’t curse. In solitary, it’s only you and your thoughts. And your thoughts… they can’t kill you.

Or so he had thought. Now, as he stands there on the edge of the village, he realizes that one’s thoughts can kill them if they go mad.

Closing his eyes, Draco tries to calm his heart, his free hand resting over it, pressing down. If he can slow his heart, he can slow his breathing, and then press forward, towards the school. Perhaps he will request a Mindhealer. Surely no one would object to that. 

He opens his eyes as his head tilts back, looking up at the stars. They’re practically glowing, and he takes comfort in the constellations, a sight he had not enjoyed for many months, even before the end of the war. The sky… it brings him comfort. It is familiar. A subject he has studied for many years. It’s a piece of normalcy in a world that no longer makes sense. 

His eyes find the moon, big and bright, and he stares at it for far too long, simply letting his heart slow back to a normal pace as he continues to breathe in and out.

The scream that cuts through the silence surrounds him, envelopes him. There is no denying that sound, that scream, that terror, that agony. He’s heard the sound before. He knows it. He just can’t quite place it, exactly.

He needs to know if he's mad, or if there's something there, and despite his better judgement, he runs, clutching his wand, towards the screams. He waves a protection spell over himself, pressing one hand onto the wall, ready to lob himself over it, towards the screams. There’s a lone building ahead, and he can practically see the walls shaking from the screams, except - as his body goes over the fence, the screaming ends. 

Ends. Completely. It has not died out, nor was it a final cry. It simply ends. Ends as though it is cut off. Muted. Silenced.

He freezes, his body having just hit the ground, and he waits for something. Looking back over his shoulder towards the low stone wall that surrounds the entirety of Hogsmeade, he suddenly flings himself back over - and is met with the screams once more.

Why would… why would someone silence the screams within the town? Why would… Something about this, it doesn’t make sense. 

Draco climbs back over the wall a final time, standing within the edge of Hogsmeade, and he looks towards the other houses. It’s no wonder they don’t hear the screams - they’re silenced. 

And now that he stands within the silence, he finally recognizes where he is, what building it is that is shaking from the screams. The Shrieking Shack.

Awkwardly, he speaks aloud.

“Hello?”

He can hear his own voice, which confuses him further. A proximity silencing spell? Why would someone only go so far as to silence the village? Why not silence the place that it’s coming from? This is like a ward… something specialized, that has to be triggered under special circumstances. It’s an impressive bit of magic, but it doesn’t make sense.

He thinks about looking at the warding, but something tells him not to approach the shack. He can almost see the bit of spellwork around it, likely with runes mixed in… Something about the shack is haunted. And as much as he wants to study it, to look at it all… self-preservation tells him it’s time to move on.

Whatever is happening in that shack… well, there’s no way in, as far as he can tell. Likely, the only person that can do anything about it is the very person he’s on his way to see. He’ll just… have to tell the Headmistress about this, once he reaches Hogwarts.

He knows better, and yet still, he approaches the shack all the same. There are runes and wardings, and as he touches it… he’s allowed in. That’s surprising. 

And then the screaming resumes.

He’s frozen in terror as he hears them, so much louder now. The screams echo as though flesh and bone are being torn apart, muscle is being ripped, and he can feel the torture. Someone in the Shack is dying… or thinks they are. Draco had never believed the Shack was actually haunted, but now… now he understands the rumors. Whatever is happening within the abandoned building… 

Death. Death is the only appropriate word for what is happening here. The screams of death.

It takes everything in him for him to turn his back to the screaming, and step out of the wards. He had half expected that he would be trapped within them, but once he’s free, he quickly returns to where his trunk is still hovering, waiting for him. He doesn’t step outside of the village and instead reaches his hand towards the trunk and summons it.

As he turns and makes his way towards the school, he no longer fears villagers stepping out and attacking him. In truth, he’s not even afraid of what he will find at the school. As he quickly moves along the path through Hogsmeade, and further on up towards the school, it’s the sound of those screams that follow him.

It’s the sound of screams that still ring in his ear as he reaches the front gate, where safety is not… but, whatever is within Hogwarts? It’s better than what’s in that Shack.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where I'm from, we call this a Yeet and Run.

**15 September 1998 - 5 Days before the New Moon**

Draco’s hands tighten on her hips as she shifts on top of him. She’s close, he can feel it, and he watches her hands move to her breasts, squeezing them. He wants them in his face, to suck at the tips, to pinch and tug at them, but he never gets that far.

Instead, he gets  _ this _ , with her on top, facing away, practically using him for her own pleasure, or her on her hands and knees, ass in the air, begging him to fuck her into the mattress. He never raises any complaint, nor tries to flip her around - she’s far too strong to allow that.

He doesn’t know her name, doesn’t know her face, but he knows that his whole body is consumed with need for her, this dream girl that brings him to the edge over and over again.

Nothing in his life has ever felt so intense as this, and he groans aloud as he feels her fingers touching at where their bodies meet. He would gladly help get her off, but he’s too busy lifting her body up and down, and keeping her upright. It would be so much easier if she would just let him lay her down and have his way with her, but any time he tries, well...

He knows so little about her. He knows that her hair is dark, and it falls down her back in waves. He knows how good it feels to grip it in his hand, yanking and tugging her backwards onto his prick. He knows that she’s built, stronger than he is, that her legs are thick and her arms toned. He knows that her stomach is taught, and that her hips are wide - in no way is she thin. She is strong. She is defined. She’s a warrior.

And fuck, does he want to know her. He wants to know every inch of her. He wants to know her taste, wants to know every sound, wants to know the look on her face when he pushes her over the edge, wants to watch her eyes roll back in her head, wants to swallow every moan, wants to know her name.

But every time he tries, the dream ends, and he’s left alone, in his bed, achingly hard. It’s better this way, to just enjoy this dream while it lasts.

He’s getting closer, and he can see her legs starting to shake, a sure sign that she’s close. He wants to flip her over, at least onto her stomach, but if he moves her at all, this will end. He has no control, just has to enjoy what she allows him, so instead, he tightens his hold on her hips, and braces his feet in the thickness of the mattress. He’ll fuck her into the ceiling if she’ll let him, fuck her so hard that the bed in his room is forced away from the wall-

He wants a sign that this is real, beyond the hardness of his cock. He wants some mark on him to know that she truly exists, this dream, this vision, this woman that is made for him.

They’re both so close, but he can’t quite reach his peak. Taking a risk, Draco releases her hips and pushes himself up onto his forearm, then wraps his arms around her. The position is awkward, and he doesn’t get as good of a thrust, but he feels so deep in her, it doesn’t matter. All he knees is for her to cum, to tighten around his length, and he’ll surely follow.

One hand wraps around her throat, and she likes that. As much as she likes being in charge, and particularly on top, she also likes this, the feeling of his own strength. His other hand goes to where hers is, rubbing at her clit, and she immediately takes her hand away, allowing him to give her pleasure.

His mouth sucks at her neck, and he pinches his eyes shut, not looking at her as her face turns away from him, her hair seeming to fall to cover it. He wants to cum, not catch a vision of her face- he’ll try after he has finally released this pent up energy.

“Cum for me,” he demands against her throat, and he bites at her shoulder, sucking at the skin. She gasps, her breathing coming out harder, and he rolls his fingers over her clit, trying to push her over the edge so he can follow. “Cum all over me, you can-”

She likes it when he talks, although he never has much to say, but this time, she’s falling over the edge. His grip on her throat tightens as he bites her shoulder, and she lets out a high pitched shriek as her core tightens around his cock. Wave upon wave of her pleasure, and Draco is deep within her, feeling every fluttering of her cunt, tightening and loosening around him, her body shaking in his arms, and he-

Sits up in a cold sweat, his body thrusting up into nothing, and it takes him a moment to realize where he is. He lets out an angry growl immediately, reaching behind his head to grab a pillow, and he throws it, pissed. This is the nineth morning in a row that he has woken up to a sex dream - every morning since he had arrived at Hogwarts.

He had initially thought he had been drugged by this mysterious siren, some girl that wanted access to the Malfoy Fortune perhaps but had not bothered to read the details of his trial and punishment. He had starved himself for two days before accepting that was not the case. His second thought was that it was the school itself playing some sort of magical trick - and he had snuck out onto the grounds to sleep by the Quidditch Pitch. But... he had still woken up rock solid.

But now, as he lays there in his bed, angry and without his pillow, he has to accept the truth.

He’s lost all control, and he’s clearly going mad.

And yet, he can still see her. He can taste her. He knows her body, knows the shape of it, the way she rocks on him, the way she writhes under him, the way she begs for him. He wants her, even if it is a love potion - it’s as though she’s made for him. 

Once again, he recalls who he’s seen since returning to Hogwarts - those he has actually looked at. Pansy… he knows it’s not Pansy. She’s the only girl he has ever had sex with, back in Sixth Year when everything was falling apart and he had needed something, anything to cling to… but no, her body doesn’t match. She barely even looks at him these days anyways.

The Greengrass sisters… neither have hair like that, and are both far too willowy to match the girl in his dreams. Davis had not returned to school. Bulstrode… no. He thinks of the younger students… but none of them even really come to memory. 

No one outside of Slytherin will even acknowledge his existence. He has no idea who it could possibly even be. 

And it’s driving him mad.

Sex dreams! Like a fourth year! Sure, he’s had a rough few years, and more than a few nights where he had had no basic urges, but to lose control of them completely?

Whoever this girl is... 

She doesn’t match. She doesn’t compare. She’s so far above anyone he has ever met. And she’s driving him insane.

His eyes shut as he imagines her once more, imagines her body underneath his. Her breasts are not overly large, and in fact could be called a bit small, but he likes how they feel in his hands, the few times he has been able to run his hands over them. He used to think he enjoyed large breasts… there had been a Hufflepuff Sixth Year when he was a Fourth Year… He couldn’t remember her name, but those had certainly awakened a desire in him...

But this mystery girl… the woman in his dreams… it’s her backside that’s more curved. Her hips spread, and he likes that he can dig his fingers into them, can grip her. He imagines having her on top, but facing him, and digging his fingers into her arse. 

Her waist is so tiny though… And he remembers that he can nearly see her ribs sticking out...

But beautiful. So beautiful. The way her back arches, how her arms grip at him, hold onto him while she uses him…

His hand tightens around his cock, imagining her, imagining fucking her into this mattress. He needs to find her, or find anyone for that matter, and just find his release. He doesn’t stop, pumping himself harder and harder, wanting to groan her name, or any name - 

Instead, he is left in the coldness of his room, his pants pushed down around his knees and his shirt now dirty from his release, and he’s alone. And somehow, he doesn’t feel any more relaxed.

His shoulders remain tense as he goes about his day, trying to disappear, but it seems impossible. Being taller than almost everyone else at eighteen, while wearing Slytherin robes and far too much blonde hair, he sticks out. In fact, he might even draw less attention if he were wearing Death Eater robes and a mask. He wants to think it’s his pretty face that draws so many looks, but he knows the truth - 

They’re looking at him because they blame him. 

All they see, as he walks through the halls of Hogwarts, is a student that had once been like them… a student that had made all of the wrong decisions. He couldn’t blame them for it, but just once… he wished someone would even try to understand. That someone would understand that, at the end of the day, he had no other choice. 

He says nothing as he moves quickly, knowing that if he looks at no one, simply looks ahead, he’s less likely to be drawn into anything. No one’s attacked him  _ yet _ , which is nearly a miracle, and if he manages to make it two weeks, he’s going to reward himself with… something. He hasn’t thought that far ahead.

In fact, the furthest he can think ahead is to his next class. It’s all he thinks about - reaching his next class. It’s a requirement of his probation, that he attend all of his classes, keep his marks up, do well on his NEWTs so that he will be accepted into a Mastery, make himself a useful member of Wizarding Society…

Being in class means making it there. It means walking, quickly, with his eyes ahead. It means not stopping for anything. It also means that he doesn’t want to be the last in the classroom - that’s an easy way to get cornered. He should know - in his stupider days, he had been the one doing the cornering. He also knows better than to be the first in the classroom - that means all conversation stops when they enter, and it becomes a whisper.

The first one to leave, the last one to enter, and in between, he walks aimlessly, up and down the halls, as though he’s in a rush to get somewhere, when really, he’s going nowhere.

It’s worked for almost two weeks, until today, when there’s a cluster in the hallway. A group of students have stopped, and there’s yelling. For a brief moment, he flashes back to the Carrow twins, and what they had done to students, forced students to do… He swallows hard, then remembers that they’re gone, trapped in Azkaban, and whatever is going on up ahead…

It might be a Slytherin, being attacked. He wants nothing to do with it, and yet, protection of his own wins out. He pushes his way through, jostling students out of the way, but when they see that he’s the one brushing them aside, they move without complaint.

“But, that’s what the Prophet said-” squeaked a small voice.

He’s finally close enough to see what’s happening - three younger students, probably second or third years, are talking to an older Gryffindor - he only sees the tie, and then he’s being jostled by another student, one nearly the size of him. Draco quickly moves to the side, to an alcove, and looks up, his eyes locking with the older Gryffindor, the one that is arguing with the younger students.

It’s Granger, and she’s pissed. Beyond pissed. He’s never seen her hair so large, has never seen her teeth out like she might growl and bite, and her stance, she looks ready to fight, and not with her wand. She looks ready to throw her fists, and like she would win.

“Is that what you all think, then?” she demands, looking towards the crowd of students. “The Prophet lied over and over during the war, but you’re all still just willing to believe everything you read? Next you’ll tell me that you trust the Ministry, and look at what terrible decisions they’ve made.”

Draco feels cold ice running down his spine. The Ministry… he hasn’t read the Prophet, but is the article about him? Is Granger yelling about the Ministry letting him loose?

“The press writes what will sell papers, and the Ministry will do whatever it thinks is best for itself. It’s why there’s still Muggleborns missing from this school. The Ministry still hasn't overturned the laws put in place by a bloody mad man, claiming it's being held up by 'bureaucracy'. Do you realize that Muggleborns still cannot legally use magic? And these are the people who influence the Daily Prophet. These are the wizards that determine what is deemed newsworthy."

He relaxes, slightly, but he’s still confused… she’s clearly going off on a tangent, like she has been pent up and trapped for too long, and has only just now been released.

“I’m… what does that have to do with Ron Weasley?” pipes up a small voice from beside Granger.

Granger whirls around to face the small voice, and grabs the paper from the student’s hand. Draco can’t see what’s on the cover, but it doesn’t matter - he knows what happened to Weasley.

He’d been there. Far from Granger, but he’d seen Greyback come out of nowhere, grab the youngest Weasley son, and -

The instant that Weasley’s neck had been snapped, Granger had screamed. It was so loud, loud enough to cover the sounds of Greyback eating into Weasley’s now dead body, ripping it apart… 

She had kept screaming, even as Greyback dropped the dead body. Screamed as she ran to Weasley, cradling him in her arms. Screamed as the blood covered her as well the stones. She had screamed and screamed until someone had knocked her out, prying Weasley’s mangled body from her arms.

“What about Ron?” she asks, stepping closer to the student. “Who from the Prophet was even there that day? It was us, the students, and our teachers, and the Order… but where was the rest of the Wizarding World? And they dare to pass judgement on us?”

“So he was running?” pipes up the voice of the other student, and Draco can just barely see the blue of their tie.

“Running after Harry!” she hisses at the student. “Running after Harry when he went off to face down Voldemort himself, to save all of you. He refused to let Harry face him alone, even though we knew that Harry had to die. He wasn’t running  _ away _ . He was a hero!”

She’s crying, but still so angry. Her eyes are glowering, her body stiff, and she’s leaning forward, almost as though she’s ready to pounce, to attack. Her hands are balled up into fists, and the paper seems to crackle under her ire. Someone, anyone, should step in… but they would likely be on the receiving end of her wrath.

Longbottom seems to come out of nowhere, and he pushes his way up to Granger, going to wrap an arm around her in what looks like a hug. Granger instead sends him a glare as he continues to approach, and then she reacts. Within a heartbeat, Longbottom is on the ground, all thanks to Granger having shoved him off. Draco can practically feel his body shake from the thud of it, and a few students gasp.

They’re all looking at Longbottom, but the only person Draco sees is Granger.

Her hands are over her mouth in horror, and suddenly, she seems to deflate. All of the life in her, from her wild hair to her fiery eyes, seems to completely dissipate, and all that’s left is a tiny girl, terrified of her own actions.

“Neville, I’m so-”

She sucks in a breath of air, cutting herself off, then turns and runs.

There’s calls for McGonagall, or Madam Pomphrey, or any adult, but Longbottom is already standing up again, not that Draco really cares to notice. Instead, Draco steps deeper into the shadow of the alcove, wanting to disappear from sight. Better that no one see him now, particularly with everyone’s adrenaline so high.

He closes his eyes, and all he can see is her, her hair wild and untamed, her jaw tense, her chest out, clear defiance in her stance. She had been angry, but also passionate. She had been… a force to be reckoned with. She had been…

Terrifying. Feral. Savage.

She had looked as mad as Bellatrix and Greyback, mixed in one.

**20 September 1998 - New Moon**

Draco’s hand tightens on his cock as he works his hand up and down the shaft, trying to drag himself closer to the edge. It’s a cycle he can’t escape, every single morning, and this particular one, he’s in no mood to deal with the feeling of the high. He just wants it over with, his forearm pressing against the wall as he leans against it, and he groans as he realizes he’s closer to that euphoria.

Two weeks of waking up every morning, hard as a rock, his mystery girl filling his head with impossible dreams. She’s perfect, made for him, but at this point, he has to guess that it’s a mixture of amortentia, two years of pent up energy, and the fact that he finally has a bit of privacy in his own bedroom. 

Whoever she is, that’s not what matters. What matters is that he gets himself off and starts his day, as soon as possible. He can’t spend hours on end living in a fantasy world. He had spent months in that cell, fantasizing about freedom. Now that he had it, he couldn’t waste his time on dreams. And yes, a part of him wants to just enjoy the simpler things like hot showers and orgasms, but…

Honestly, this waking whole thing of up with a raging boner is getting a bit old.

Besides, he rationalizes to himself, as much as he would enjoy a warm body in his bed that he could fuck until he couldn’t move, he knows the truth - no one would sleep with him, and if they did, they wanted one of two things - either to take his fortune, or to kill him when his guard is down. His hand won’t hex him, nor will slice off his own prick. It’s safer this way, to stay with just his hand. 

He can trust himself… and that’s about it. Everyone around him, they look at him like he has Dragon Pox. Actually, that would probably be better than being an acquitted Death Eater…

He pushes all other thoughts away, and just sees her, the girl of his dreams, while he chases after that final release. He can see her, arching her back, her hands on either side of his chest, and she’s rocking herself slow, the head of his cock bumping into the soft spot inside of her that makes her scream every time. 

If she would have just turned her head, he could have kissed her, could have fucked his tongue into her mouth and tasted her… 

But instead, her hair had fallen into his face, keeping him from seeing anything. He had pinched his eyes shut as well, simply enjoying the feeling of her using him, of his fingers rubbing on either side of her clit, of her tightening around his cock, of-

His body jerks as he shoots himself all over the wall of the shower, and he lets himself groan, glad that he had remembered the silencing charm. He doesn’t need anyone walking by the bathroom to guess what he’s doing, even if he is up earlier than the sun. 

He can still see her, even as he catches his breath, as he finishes cleaning himself up. Whoever she is, she’s an angel. He’s pretty much convinced that she isn’t real, but that doesn’t matter. Even though it’s annoying, being woken up with his cock rock solid, he’s still waking up, and with a smile on his face and his heart still racing. He’s doing better than some.

His heart is still racing as he heads down to the Great Hall, but otherwise, everything is completely quiet. He’s always the first one to grab a bite to eat, snagging a few extra bites as well to eat at midday. Dinner is harder, but if he arrives as the last few students are leaving, the elves tend to leave him a plate. He asks nicely enough, and they… well, they seem to pity him.

Unlike everyone else.

Everyone else would hex him in a heartbeat if they could get away with it. According to what he had overheard in the library, McGonagall had sat with each house, reminding them that unity was the future. There were Mind Healers roaming the halls, pulling students out of class, having support groups, all in an effort for that unity.

But not the Slytherins. Slytherins were never grabbed from class. They were never offered Mind Therapy. It seemed that unity only went so far… 

No one knew. No one understood. The reason why the Slytherins barely even looked at one another… it really wasn’t even shame and guilt from what they had done during the war. It was because, at the end of the day, they had all suffered under the regime… The expectations on them, the requirements, the reminders… The reminders from a Pureblood parent was normally accompanied by a Curse.

Two weeks. How has it only been two weeks? And before that… just over four months. His life had been completely different not even five months earlier. He had been living in terror, in fear, in agony…

He’s not completely safe here at Hogwart, but he’s safer. Better here, looking over his shoulder, than in the manor, shaking and hiding in his wardrobe, praying that the wizard the Dark Lord is demanding be brought before him is not himself…

He opens the door to the Great Hall and enters, then has to suddenly pause. This time yesterday, this exact time yesterday, he had been the only one in the room. The morning before that, the same, and the same the day before that, and the day before, sometimes even there before the elves had begun to deliver food, but-

But this morning, there is already someone sitting at a table. They don’t look up when he enters, but he can see the tenseness in their shoulders, enough to know that they’re aware of his presence.

And Draco doesn’t know what to say.

It’s been two weeks at school, and while he has spoken to his professors, and given a few nods at this point to a few Slytherins, he’s not even truly looked at Granger, save for the moment she had gone insane in the hallway. He had half expected to never see her again after she had shoved Longbottom, but she had been in glass the next day.

Draco is always the last to enter the classroom, sitting himself in the desk closest to the back door. When he looks around the room, he always sees Granger settling herself in the back seat closest to the window. It’s always just a glance, an awareness of her presence, but otherwise…

Now, he’s looking at her. Now, he’s unable to glance away. 

His left arm itches slightly, but he resists the urge to reach over and touch where the Dark Mark marrs his skin. He knows, underneath her sweater, that she bears another mark, left by a cursed blade. It’s a Black family speciality, and while it might have been possible to remove the curse while the wound was still bleeding, by now… There’s nothing to be done about it.

She’ll wear that mark, and the others she received that night, for the rest of her life.

She should be surrounded by her friends. That’s the first thought that comes to mind. He knows that Potter didn’t return to school, too intent on tracking down Dark Wizards. Weasley… well, he doesn’t want to think about him. Longbottom, she had quite literally shoved away. And others… the more he thinks about it, not a single other face comes to mind. The only Eighth Years from Gryffindor to return were Granger and Longbottom, and Granger had never really been a popular one.

And now, she sits all alone, practically shrinking into the table, slowly and steadily eating.

That’s the third thing he notices about her, after recognizing her actual presence, and the fact that she’s alone. She’s eating, steadily, as though she’s being forced. Bite after bite, her arm half wrapped around her plate, and she’s more or less bent over it, as though protecting it. 

But still, it looks almost like she wants to disappear, with that plate. A plate that is covered in just meat. He wonders about the greens, or porridge, or even a bit of toast… but then again...

According to the papers, she and Potter had starved for months out in the woods during the war.

She must be growing used to having food again, particularly meat. Meat would have been hard to come by in the woods, unless you were able to trap your own.

But… the longer he looks at her, the more he notices that, she doesn’t look particularly starved. Not with the way her arms seem to… bulge. Her face is still gaunt, but her legs look… no. Something about her is just off. He can’t quite place it, but she looks both thick, and yet gaunt. The weight must be returning to her slowly, awkwardly.

At the final battle, she hadn’t looked as thin, but when his Aunt was torturing her, she had been practically bones, unable to even lift her head while pinned down. 

The girl in front of him looks stronger, even though the way she holds herself practically screams a desire to be tiny.

He jerks himself out of his fascinated stare, and quickly moves to the Slytherin table. A plate appears before him immediately, along with a small paper bag, likely packed with a sandwich, a few apples, and pastries. His lunch.

The coffee is hot and steaming, and he adds cream to it, swallowing it down with every bite of his eggs and toast. He forces himself not to look up at her again, silently cursing himself for sitting on the side of the table that faced hers. It’s a force of habit, to keep his back against the wall, so no one can sneak up on him, but he’d rather be hexed from behind than accidentally be caught staring at her… again.

If he’s caught staring at her, then he’ll have to say something to her, and the only appropriate thing to say would be an apology. He refuses to even try to apologize to most of the student body - he hasn’t personally wronged most of them, but Granger…

With Granger, it has always been personal. He had teased and mocked her for years, first because of her blood status, and then because of anything and everything. Part of it had been childish, but part of it was…  _ vile _ . 

But his worst transgressions against her were not even the sort that an apology could fix. It’s not because he actively did anything… but because he simply did nothing. He didn’t help. He didn’t step in. He didn’t end it. He had watched while she was tortured. He had watched while she screamed. He had watched Weasley charge off towards the Forbidden Forest. He had watched her lose everything.

If he had stepped in, even once, how much pain could he have saved her from? How much suffering? If he, even once, had been brave… 

He knows that he is not the one that drew blood… but he also didn’t stop it.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he suddenly realizes his plate is clear. He drains the last two swallows of his coffee, then picks up the paper sack, intent on returning to his room before any other Slytherins are even in the common room. While he has no need to study or do course work, he doesn’t want to be caught out where anyone might approach him. Better to shut himself away.

He turns to walk out of the Great Hall, when his eyes inevitably are drawn back to Granger. She’s still slumped over her plate, almost as though all of her energy has been dragged out of her, like half her soul has just… evaporated. Her eyes are hanging heavy, and he wonders if nightmares are keeping her awake at night.

The plate is nearly cleared, but she doesn’t stop, just slowly picking up each piece of sausage, putting it into her mouth, chewing, swallowing, then reaching for another. She doesn’t even stop to take a swallow of tea, which is just in front of her, untouched.

Her eyes are unfocused, lost, and she seems to be eating almost mechanically. She looks empty. She looks like one of those that had been tortured to insanity.

The Hermione Granger of a few days earlier had been… big. Larger than life. Grand. Strong. Neurotic and intense, but bold. Her arms had been out, her hair wild, and she had been… a presence.

But now? Now, she is melting into the table, disappearing, practically fading before his eyes. 

The girl he had seen a few days earlier had been filled with anger and rage. She had been terrifying, yes, but also powerful. Draco had practically been able to see the magic in her fingertips. The way she had screamed and shrieked, had shoved Longbottom away… for a brief second, Draco had had a memory of his Aunt Bella, crazy after years of isolation. 

The Granger in front of him? She’s all but disappearing.

He considers saying something, then finally decides against it.

Moving towards the door to the Great Hall, he’s almost out when he suddenly hears a voice behind him. It’s small, and tiny, and almost a whisper, but it’s there. He looks back over his shoulder immediately, but the lost eyes do not meet his. They’re just… staring off again, as she continues to slowly put pieces of bacon in her mouth.

_ Good Morning, Draco _ .

The words haunt him for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be updated when it is updated.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://melanoradrood.tumblr.com/)


End file.
